Barefoot in Baghdad Read Online Free Page A

worked in the same field of international development. Many were avid human rights activists. I had expected their unconditional support. Instead, I received more disappointment and criticism. They argued that no matter how I spun it, my decision portrayed support for the Bush administration. Any success in Iraq equaled a Bush success.
    In short, I was seen as a sell out from every angle.
    I had reached a breaking point. I needed to get away and think things through. Ever since I was in high school, I had found peace at the Shenandoah River in West Virginia. I went online and booked a room at a small bed-and-breakfast in West Virginia. It was only a one-hour drive from my apartment in DC. I left a phone message at home that I was spending the night out. It was time for some hard-core soul-searching.
    Was all this worth the pain I was causing my parents? Was I really selling out and too dense to see it? Was I really trying to make a difference or was this some narcissistic way of seeking attention?
    I spent all night praying Istikhara, a special prayer for Muslims to help them with difficult decisions. The next morning I awoke with more clarity on the situation than I had had in weeks. This was something I had to do. I had just turned twenty-eight, and if I didn’t seize control of my life now, I never would.
    I made a final plea to my father. Armed with modern technology I plotted the best way to make my case. Email. I sent a long email to my father, outlining my arguments once more. The final paragraph read:
    Dad, it goes without saying that ur word will always be the final word. I know none of the above can convince u, but at the end of the day I am asking u to have faith in me and trust me. I need to do this. I believe I can help. And I could never do this without your blessing.
    After I sent the email, I drove back to Virginia. When I arrived home, I found my father’s brief reply in my in-box:
    I do not know what satanic force is dragging you to Iraq, but I do know I cannot stop you. Go and may God bless you.
    It wasn’t exactly the father-daughter correspondence I had imagined, but it would have to do. My mother was insistent that I was playing with fire, but she knew that once my father had agreed, there was little more to be said. Indeed, all things immediately fell into place.
    On July 4, 2003, I left from Washington Dulles International Airport for Amman, Jordan. The poignancy of traveling on Independence Day was not lost on me as I reflected on countless debates I’d had over Iraq’s status between liberation and occupation. Despite our disagreements, all my friends and family came to the airport to bid me farewell. I felt grateful for those in my life. As much as they opposed my decision, they gave me the freedom to make it. When the time came, they were by my side to wish me good luck.
    Even my mom came to the airport. Reluctantly, she hugged me and, through her tears, warned me that I may have tricked my dad, but she was still not happy with my decision. For that, she promised me, if I died, the family would hold no funeral services.
    In return, I promised to haunt her.

I was scared. I knew I had no real reason to be, but I couldn’t help it. It was 3:30 a.m., and I was standing outside a hotel parking lot in Jordan and waiting for my ride to Baghdad. Our plan was to drive to the Jordan-Iraq border. We would wait until sunrise to cross into Iraq, and then we would speed across the country like the devil was chasing us.
    I was actually going to do this. I couldn’t quite believe it.
    Less than twenty-four hours ago I had boarded my flight at Washington Dulles, filled with anticipation. The moment I had spent three months fighting for had arrived. But somewhere along the line, a feeling of dread overtook me. Instead of shouting for joy, I wanted to turn and run.
    Why hadn’t I flown to Baghdad? Well, there were no official flights. Traveling by road was the only option. But no one had secured the roads